The Guardians
by Angel Tsuiraku
Summary: (possible series) AC 200. Quatre Raberba Winner has received death threats before, but when an attempt's made, he turns to a well-known detective for help rather than his friends. They're not too happy about that, and the detective wasn't exactly what h


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The Guardians

--L6 Colony Cluster

--1:53 AM

--September 10, 200

The chill in the air wasn't what made him breathless, but it certainly didn't help matters. As he stood panting for breath, he buzzed the doorbell again and waited anxiously for an answer. There simply was no where else Quatre Raberba Winner could go. The irony of the situation—the 'golden' boy in neo-London's less-than-glamorous back-streets—would have brought a bitter smile to his lips had he the energy left. With a sigh, he leaned forward and pushed the doorbell again. The intercom had read 'Tsuiraku,' at the front door, and from several articles he was aware that Tsuiraku was the best detective in the business. He could reputedly chase down anyone. If there was one person Quatre could count on to help clean up this mess, it was this man.

Except for the fact that when the door opened, the person on the other side wasn't a man. Nor did that person seem particularly excited to see him.

"It's two in the morning, I'm tired, I'm cold, and I've only been asleep for three hours, so who are you and what are you doing here?" the woman asked, and suddenly Quatre couldn't breathe for an entirely different reason.

The detective was absolutely beautiful, even when she'd obviously dragged herself out of a fitful sleep. She was clad in little more than a big sweater, with blue eyes that lanced right into him and long, heavenly brownish-gold hair that, toward the ends, cascaded in waves to her mid-back. Those blue eyes narrowed when she didn't get a quick, glib answer, and she seemed to awaken as she realized the more-than-likely brevity of the situation. After all, it wasn't every morning that strange men showed up on her doorstep. After a long moment of consideration, she moved aside to let him pass.

"Come on in," she said, and he nearly collapsed with relief. She led him to her modest living room and stepped into the adjoining kitchen to put a kettle on. "Coffee or tea?"

"Tea, if you would," he replied. He noted the lack of accent in her voice. L-6 was the latest in colony clusters, with only four or five fully operational colonies in space. Quatre commissioned the cluster himself as a favor for an old English friend, and so the cluster had been modeled after England itself. Which accounted for the rain outside. As a result, many English people had flocked to the colony to experience a taste of life in space, and many maintained their accents. But this woman didn't have an accent, at least not a British one.

"Man after my own heart." She lingered in the kitchen while she waited for the water to boil, motioning for Quatre to sit. He did, glancing around the spare apartment. "So…what are you here for? Bomb threat? Kidnapping? Death threats?"

He glanced her way again and faltered as he considered his answer. Then, through a tight throat, "The third one rings a bell, but this time it's serious."

"So you've been threatened before?" She brought him a steaming cup of tea and he felt safe for the first time in a long time.

"Many times," he replied with a somewhat forced laugh, "but this time an attempt was made. A serious attempt, not like the half-thought-through snake-in-the-mailbox tricks."

"Why haven't you reported the threats before?" she asked, and he found himself under the intense scrutiny of her gaze once more. He didn't know what Tsuiraku the woman was like, but Tsuiraku the detective was not someone he'd want to cross.

"When you're in my line of business, with my contacts and political affiliations, it's just something you come to expect. I've never had to take it seriously before, but this time I'm scared."

It was then her eyes widened with recognition. "Of course…you're Mr. Winner," she murmured, then those eyes narrowed and the irises sharpened to little blue bits of steel. "So…what brought you running to me at two in the morning?"

Quatre was glad she hadn't tried to impress him with her knowledge of everything that was even remotely related to him, or immediately called for six SWAT teams, or anything of that nature. He felt like a normal human being for once. Granted, most normal people wouldn't be searching for detectives at two in the morning for protection from a potential murderer, but no one was trumpeting his arrival, either.

"Well Miss Tsuiraku, I've heard many complimentary things about your work, and your name stuck out in my memory. Although," he admitted with a slight smile, "I had expected you to be a man."

"Of course. I deliberately asked that my sex be kept quiet. It usually comes in handy for most people to assume you're something you're not in my line of work. Now, what's the story behind this threat?"

He shrugged, letting himself drift back into memory for a moment. "It was about four days ago…the threat came in through the mail, disguised as a report from the sixth colony in this cluster, which is very near completion. I skimmed through it, but dismissed it as nothing unusual. Normally my secretary catches the threats and they are disposed of, but this one got through. Not the first time, and certainly not the last. The ironic thing was, I was slightly amused by the lengths this person had gone through to make this letter particularly ominous. After all, it was the sixth day of the month, in the sixth colony cluster, from the sixth colony. It was as if this man were trying to associate himself with Satan. Again, this isn't particularly unusual in death threats, so I tossed the note into the shredder—" he ignored her regretful wince—"and continued on with my day. I didn't give it a second thought, until the letters continued."

"All the letters were disposed of, then?" she asked, and sighed when he nodded.

"Unfortunately, yes. But tonight, something came about."

_My life is like a corny Private Eye movie, _she thought, glancing out of the window at the gloomy rain. She took a sip of her tea and waited for him to continue.

"I woke up quite suddenly at around twelve-thirty, as if I'd had a bad dream. And there, on the ceiling, someone had painted '666' right above my head. I knew it was our guy because he always referenced '666.' And when I tried to make a phone call, the line was dead. So was the fax, the internet, and the cable. The lights had been tampered with—not turned off, but instead made into a type of strobe—and the constant flickering of them started to make me sick. I made my way toward the nearest exit, and got shot at." Quatre paused for a long moment. "But it was as if the person wasn't trying to shoot me. Instead it was as if he was trying to herd me back into the house. And it didn't take me long to figure out why."

There was another pause, and the woman looked at him in frustration. "Well…why?" she demanded. He smiled thinly.

"He was gassing the house. Something undetectable. Odorless, colorless, you know the drill. And it was at that point that I realized the strobe lighting wasn't the only thing making me sick. I managed to get to a window and threw it open to get some air, then I twisted my way throughout the house—with periodic stops at windows—to throw him off of my trail and slipped out through a little-used side entrance. I doubt he was even aware it existed, otherwise he would have found a way to block it off. And then I came looking for you. You're pretty hard to find, you know," he added. Tsuiraku flashed the first real smile he'd seen since their unorthodox meeting. "But where are my manners? I'm Quatre Raberba Winner." He stuck out his hand, encouraged by that smile.

"Angel Tsuiraku," she replied, and gave the proffered hand a firm shake. "And I believe, Mr. Winner, that we've got some work to do."

He nodded his agreement and glanced around. "Where do we start?"

"Not where," she answered with a small grin, "but when. And that's tomorrow morning, after we both get some well-deserved rest. We'll head to my office for lunch and start the whole detecting process, if you would."

"I would," he agreed, and she laughed.

"Come on…I'll show you the guest room," she said.

"Anything you say," he replied, and relaxed. He was safe, at least for the moment, and better yet, he'd found a way to leave his friends out of it. No more danger for them…and all it would take to clear this whole thing up was a little old-fashioned detective work.

--

The words 'old-fashioned' and 'little' didn't fit too well in Angel's line of work, or so Quatre soon discovered. The entire station was a whirlwind of activity, and desks ranged from the meticulously kept to nearly the discord his was more than likely in. Angel wound through the mess with the ease of one who'd been doing so for a long time, but she couldn't have been very old. She looked close to his age, and for a detective, that was extremely young. She'd set up her complimentary reputation very quickly, in that case, and he glanced at her with newfound respect. Even more so when he discovered that her desk was one of those meticulous ones. He couldn't keep his desk neat for more than a few hours. She sat him down and told him to wait while she disappeared back into the brawl, leaving him with a state-of-the-art computer and several case files piled neatly on the side of her desk. When she didn't return for several long minutes, he reached for them.

"I wouldn't poke around in those if I were you," cautioned a male voice from behind him, and Quatre turned to see a tall, dark-haired man with a hint of a Scottish burr. That hair had been pulled back into a neat ponytail at the base of his neck, and his eyes flickered with ironic amusement. He was very much in shape, and towered over most of the people in the room.

"Sorry…are they personal?"

"I wouldn't say that." The Scotsman smiled sardonically. "But they're pretty nasty if you know what I mean."

"Oh. Right," Quatre agreed. The big man stuck out a hand.

"Gregor Mackenzie, but everyone just calls me Mac," he said, and Quatre shook his hand.

"Quatre. It's nice to meet you."

"Oh, I know who y' are, sir," the Scotsman replied. He opened his mouth to continue, but was cut off when Angel reappeared.

"Mac, please tell me you're not telling Mr. Winner all about your daring escapades in the Scottish Highlands back in the wars," she said, and he grinned sheepishly.

"Nay, lass…hadn't gotten that far yet."

They shared a laugh and then Angel redirected her attention to Quatre. "This is Mac, he's the closest thing to a partner I've got. He likes to haunt my desk. I think that's because you can actually see the top of it," she informed him, and shot the said man a look. Mac only managed another sheepish grin before she continued. "Now, first things first. I've got quite a few questions to ask you, and Mac—" another look—"is going to go through our data bases and see if he can find a few suspects base on the information you're going to give us. Mac, why don't you get the program running?"

Mac meekly disappeared to do as he was told, and Quatre smirked.

"He's afraid of you," he commented, and Angel flashed another one of those rare, genuine smiles.

"Don't make me show you why," she answered, and he made a show of nodding his agreement. "Now then, let's get started."

--

It had been a long process, and in the end there were quite a few potential suspects. Angel had leaned back in her chair and sighed, then rolled her shoulders and readjusted her posture. There really was no help for it. Mr. Winner had acquired more than a few enemies, and she had half-expected a list even long than the one in her hands anyway. At least the victim had been most helpful—and thorough. Her eyes flicked over to him—he and Mac were having an argument about football (or soccer, depending on the preference), and possibly the Scottish rugby team from the look on the Scotsman's face. She shook her head and gathered her list, then ran started a second program that would run background checks on each suspect. Another long process, but that's what _real_ detective work was. No running in, guns blazing. That was always the last resort. And while it did add flavor to the job, it also led to touchy lawsuits and inquiry committees and Preventor meetings in which one was forced to answer for the use of a weapon. It was all a bureaucratic mess, and that's precisely what the new government wanted it to be. No mistakes in their new, "peaceful" world.

Still, looking at Quatre, she wondered exactly how "peaceful" the new world was for him. He'd admitted to receiving several death threats, and every day he was hounded by the press, the fans, and the enemies. He'd insisted that he was single, and apart from the help, he lived alone in the estate he referred to as a "house." She shook her head. A lonely life. Not too many women would know how to handle all of the pressures that he seemed to take in stride. No, whoever became Mrs. Winner would have to be made of tough stuff, and probably have to be aristocratic as well. Status was still, and always had been, everything.

Angel dragged herself out of her musings and made herself focus to her task. After all, Quatre Raberba Winner's life was in her hands. It was quite a burden, and to do her job properly she had do phase out all other distractions. Still, she managed one last peek the boys' way. Phasing the distractions out, when her charge was five-ten, blonde, blue-eyed, charming, in good shape, and friendly…it was going into be difficult. Near impossible.

Focus. She chanted that to herself and ran the first of the names through.


End file.
